Page 5

Welcome Home

I t’s nearly four when I pull into the driveway of a house that I haven’t seen in almost fifteen years. I hop out of the cab of the truck, shoving my hands in the pockets of my worn, holey jeans as I saunter towards the wraparound porch. The familiarity hits me, but oddly, nostalgia does not. I remember my childhood home, and I can think back on good times here, but no overwhelming emotion comes rushing at me like you read about in books.

Feeling vaguely unsettled by that realization, I walk over to the big oak tree that still has my rope swing hanging from a gnarled branch. I push on the board, testing that it is sturdy, and then sit down on it, pushing myself with my toes. My eyes roam over the house, and I wonder why I never realized that I was so detached from my past. I graduated, headed for college, and just… left. Being back should flood me with emotions and memories, but it’s not. There’s a blank spot where all that should be.

It’s not bad, per se, but I know it’s not normal. Nothing bad happened to me. They did not bully me; my parents didn’t treat me poorly. I simply have no connection to this place or the people here. Thinking about it is like watching a movie about someone else’s life. I see it all, but I’m not a part of it.

“Been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Leaping off the seat, I whirl to face the person who sauntered up behind me and scared the shit out of me. “Holy hell!”

The wrinkled old lady throws her head back and laughs. “Sorry ‘bout that, jellybean. At my age, I rarely get the drop on people.”

I squint, inspecting her, and my face breaks into a smile. “Niecy! You nearly scared me out of my skin!”

She smiles indulgently, tilting her head as she looks at me from head to toe. “You always were a jumpy little thing. I should have remembered, but alas, the mind is foggier the older I get.”

Niecy is the name I gave our housekeeper Bernice when I learned to talk. She and her husband Eugene worked for my parents and several other families when I was a child. They did housekeeping, grounds work, and light cooking for some of the finishing school staff so they would be available for school needs. I loved her peanut butter pie, and my mouth waters wondering if she remembered that tidbit.

“I kept the place looking nice with the help of my younger counterparts, just as Gene did the yard. After your poor parents passed and you couldn’t come home, we followed the lawyer’s instructions for care and maintenance to the letter. I always hoped it would mean that someday you’d return home.”

Looking around for a moment, I take in the perfectly manicured lawn, landscaping, and exterior of the house. “You and Gene did an amazing job. I’m sure your ‘extra help’ comes from grandkids?”

Her smile widens again. “Surely does. I know Portia graduated when you were still in the lower school, but her kids are my dedicated helpers.”

I frown. “Oz doesn’t have any kids? He was older than Portia.”

Turning towards the house, Niecy shakes her head, looking sad. “Come on, child. Let’s get your stuff unloaded before it gets dark. I have cottage ham and beans on the warmer, fresh cornbread, and peanut butter pie.”

The gasp flies out of me before I can stop it, and I give her a wry grin. “Foggy mind, my ass, Niecy. You’re as sharp as a tack.”

“Language,” she calls over her shoulder, her voice laced with amusement. “You’re never too old for a swat, jellybean.”

My lips curve up as I follow the tiny woman across my yard and up the stairs of my home. I finally found something that made me feel nostalgic, and I’m going to soak in while I inhale the best food I’ve had since Europe.

* * *

Ugggggghhhhh.

I ate SO much food, and it made Niecy happy as hell. Never mind that I’m too full to even contemplate unloading the truck tonight, and that’s going to set me back at least a half a day. My belly is bursting with home cooked Southern food, and I’m not complaining a whit.

Groaning again, I roll off the couch and force myself to stand. I have to go get my bag and the duffel with my essentials. That way, I can wake up early and get a jump on my meticulously planned schedule. I’m already behind the eight-ball because of that traffic jam and my visit with Niecy. I can’t let that spiral out of control.

There’s simply too much to do before the school year begins, and as always, I’m doing it all on my own.

I trudge out to the truck, opening the passenger door and tugging out my gear. I’m so used to being on the move and having to travel light that I need little to survive for a day or two. As long as there’s a bathroom and Wi-Fi, I’m usually good with just these two bags if I pack correctly. A shiver runs down my spine as I settle the duffel on my back, and I know distinctly that there are eyes on me. I don’t know where they are, but someone is definitely watching me. Years of being a woman in large foreign cities alone have honed my early warning system, and it’s never been wrong yet.

My cell is in the house. I didn’t think I’d need it running across the yard in fucking Mayberry. In a proper city, I would never have taken the chance. But here? It did not occur to me I’d feel unsafe. I pause, pretending to root through my bag for something so I can buy time to decide what I’m going to do. I’m perfectly capable of basic self-defense—again, woman in big cities—but I don’t know if this is a person or a stray mountain lion. The difference could mean a lot of surgeries—if I don’t die. The hairs on the back of my neck tickle and a surge of what MUST be adrenaline courses through me, making my limbs feel tingly.

It’s a weird sensation—one unlike anything I’ve ever felt before—and I remain motionless at the truck as it flows through me.

I tilt my head, sensing confusion in the hidden watcher, and wait to see what happens. There’s a whispered rustle in the foliage behind me, and as if by magic, the feeling of being spied on goes away. I frown, deciding a mountain lion or animal would not have simply yeeted off when I made myself a stationary target. That means that the eyes must belong to a human, and now I’m definitely freaked out. I gather my shit, slinging the bag over my shoulder as I hurry inside for the night.

Time to look into a fucking Ring or some shit.

Just fucking great.

* * *

When I wake up in the morning, I resign myself to hauling in the non-furniture items box by box.

I’m going to see if I can hire some local teens to help with the furniture once I have my smaller shit taken care of, but I want to organize as I go, so I haven’t asked Niecy. She’s so efficient that I would have had grandkids here at 8 AM banging on my door, so I waited. My compulsiveness about my space and how it’s set up dictates I carry each box in, take it to the marked room, and unpack it before I grab another.

The first box is from the kitchen, and I open it, looking at the meager amount of kitchen tools and devices that I own. I’ve always wanted to cook—my mother and Niecy taught me well—but I never had the time or space as I moved around so much. Luckily, my parents’ things never got packed away, so all the expensive dishes, tools, and gadgets are still here. I find spots for the admittedly slim pickings in my box, making certain to maintain the military-like discipline of my mother’s organization system as I go.

After an hour, the kitchen boxes are done, and my stomach is growling like a lion at the zoo. I didn’t have Niecy stock the fridge ahead just in case something delayed me, so I head for the bathroom to do a little touch up before I present myself in public. The Hollow was always a finicky place about appearances, and I can’t show up looking like something a cat dragged in. It drives me bonkers, but this first re-impression could make or break my business prospects.

Eyeing my reflection, I tighten the high ponytail, fluffing the ends so it has bounce. I apply a little makeup—just enough to be presentable. My ripped jeans, three-quarter sleeve baseball tee that says ‘Artists do it in colorful strokes’ and worn combat boots would not be acceptable if people didn’t know that I just arrived.

Trust me, everyone in the Hollow knows I’ve arrived by now.

That’s just how this place works.

Sighing, I check my bag for my phone and settle it over my shoulder. I walk to the wall, plucking the labelled key chain for my dad’s vintage Impala off the key pegs, and chuckle. Man, the Winchesters would drool at his baby, and I’m sure Gene has kept it in pristine condition since his passing. I’m going to look like the worst news since the Civil War when I roll up to main street.

I kind of like that.

With a satisfied smirk, I head for the garage, deciding that if I’m going to live here again, I need to figure out the fine line between necessary Southern ass kissing and that old Yankee ‘fuck you’ spirit to survive.

* * *

As I swing into a parking spot on Main Street, I feel the eyes on me.

It might be paranoia, but the small-town grapevine definitely activated the moment I arrived yesterday, and people will check me out. I’m hardly the first person to leave the Hollow and not return, but now that I have, it’s bound to get tongues wagging. I can only beg the Universe to keep every single person who approaches me from asking about how I’m doing since my parents’ passing and commiserating about missing the funeral.

For one thing, I’m uncertain I’ve fully dealt with that situation myself, and secondarily, I can’t talk about the reasons I couldn’t return. The NDAs and official secrets type documents I signed almost daily while in Europe prevent me from discussing any of my work there. I’ve never breached that trust, so I know it’s not why I flagged with the Fibbies. I’m not about to start with a Hollow-style Karen who wants fodder for the diner’s dinner coffee klatch.

Climbing out of the Impala with my head held high, I adjust my sunglasses and sling my bag over my head. My shades are ultra-posh—a gift from a gadget guy that works for MI-6 during a brief jaunt in England—and I know the passersby can’t see me assessing the scene.

The main drag of my former hometown has changed little: trees and clean sidewalks, picturesque businesses, and colorful banners on the iron work light poles. One end of the street leads into a renovated cul-de-sac in front of the city buildings and the other end bottoms out in the lots shared by the Formative and Finishing schools. They’ve done some polishing on the facades, but everything is exactly where I expected it to be.

I head down the street in the direction of the city buildings. The diner is situated kitty corner to the government structure. I’m sure much of their business comes from the employees and folks on their way to and from their jobs on Main. Through the protection of my reflective lenses, I scope out the businesses between the two massive landmarks on either end.

There’s a fairly broad assortment: a bakery, a furniture store, a clothing store, a toy store, a liquor store, a pizza place, a bookstore, the empty spot where my gallery will live, a bank, a salon, a doctor’s office, a vet clinic, and a place with darkened windows and no sign. That one is odd, but maybe, like my space, it’s under construction.

“Why, Jolene Whitley! Fancy meetin’ you here!”

My brow arches as I take in the short, pastel clad man in front of me. I wholeheartedly disagree that it is a coincidence that the first person I run into on an early morning food run is Aldous Basil Longworth. He’s been the executive assistant to the mayor of Whistler’s Hollow since long before I was born.

His wife’s family is part of the upper echelon of the caste system here, and he’s always been an odious little toady. The years have been kind—or a surgeon has—because he doesn’t seem to have aged a day since I left. Aldous is still decked out like a Southern dandy ready to hit the Derby—pastel linen suit, coordinated bow tie/pocket square/shirt, shiny white Balenciaga’s, and a jaunty hat.

I plaster on a fake smile, knowing that every word, gesture, and phrase will get reported to the entire diner by lunchtime, plus discussed in the hallways of the city building as I’m a Kardashian with a new sex tape. “ Bonjour , Aldous. It has been a long time, indeed. I was headed to the diner to buy some breakfast, if you’d be so kind as to escort me while we catch up.”

His eyes light up at the prospect of an extended conversation and he laughs like a high-pitched weasel. His hand places my arm in the crook of his and he pats my hand. “I would be honored, Miss Whitley. We rarely have alumni as illustrious as you return to settle in our fair town.”

It takes everything in me not to shiver when he touches me. I’m not comfortable with strangers touching me after years of being a cautious single woman, and Aldous creeps me the hell out. When I was in high school, he spent a lot of time watching the cheerleaders’ practices, and I’ve disliked him ever since.

Plus, I’m not endeared to anyone who spends most of their life fomenting gossip and rumors and Aldous is the single biggest source of incorrect information in the Hollow. He’ll repeat anything he hears without the slightest hint of validation, and its ruined reputations and lives aplenty over the years. He always escapes the consequences, though, because he works for the mayor.

At least, that’s what my parents used to say when they thought I was in bed for the night. They thought Mayor Cornelia should cut him loose, founding family or not.

I have an entire catalog of those little snippets that I caught when my parents were unaware, and I think they will serve me well as I learn to navigate this place again.

“… don’t you think, Jolene?”

Oh shit. I spaced out while the weasel was talking.

“I’m uncertain, Aldous. I’ve just returned, as you know.” Please let that work…

He pats my hand with a creepy little smile. “That’s true, dear. You’ll need time to get settled into your home and that adorable space you’ve rented before you look for students. I’m sure that once you do, you’ll contact Ophelia’s Charlotte Marie for a prime lesson slot. After all, you were friends during your tenure in our lovely schools.”

Again, I’m thankful for the special shades so this presumptuous shit can’t see my reaction. Ophelia Jane Longworth was part of the upper caste ‘mean girl’ group, and I was hoping most of them had left the Hollow to marry old men for their fortunes. Hearing that she’s here, has a kid, and will interact with me as a parent at both the school and the studio makes my stomach clench.

But I can’t correct Aldous because I don’t know if he knows about her behavior and condones it or is like most of the men in town who don’t have the foggiest what their spawn get up to besides things that win trophies.

“I’m sure that if Ophelia wants to put Charlotte in lessons, she will come to the open house so I can get her scheduled. Thank you for thinking of me, Aldous. It’s very kind of you,” I reply, keeping my tone bland. I don’t want him to get even a tiny whiff of the disdain I feel for his daughter and their compatriots. After all, they are the people most likely to have kids and be able to afford pricey lessons or buy art for their homes. I have to be smart and sustainable while I get my business off the ground.

“Little Charlotte excels at everything she does. She’s in the top ten percent of her preschool class, and was potty trained by the time she was eighteen months old!”

I blink, stunned into silence. What in the hell has happened to parents in the US while I was gallivanting around Europe for years? Is this a recent development or is it particular to the income level of a town like the Hollow? I left teaching to pursue my psych degrees because the parents and admin in my inner-city school were so disconnected from the success of the children. If Aldous is a good example, these people are too involved in their kids’ success.

Why would anyone in their right mind measure academic performance levels in preschool?

My bewildered thoughts are interrupted as the tiny man lets go of my arm and opens the door of the diner, making the bell tinkle. The din inside quiets as I walk in, and the eyes following me make the hackles on the back of my neck stand up. I paste on a fake smile, adopting the persona I’d left behind when I moved. Aldous follows me as I head for the counter, clearly puffed up at being the first person to locate me. I stop at the end of the counter, sitting on a stool as I watch the server clean up a place at the other end.

Aldous clears his throat loudly to my chagrin, the sound echoing in the diner like a socialite summoning a servant. This is not the impression I wanted to make on my first outing in town, and I certainly don’t want to offend either of the classes occupying the diner. The server is mid-forties and looks comfortable in her skin, her sharp gaze slicing into Aldous like a hawk that’s spotted a mouse.

“Aldous Basil Longworth. Do not make me tell you again. I do not appreciate the tone of your throat clearing when you get impatient, boy.”

Holding back a snicker, I study this woman. I don’t remember her, but since she’s thirteen years older now, she could be someone I saw daily. Anyone that makes a douche like Aldous shrivel in place is aces in my book. Before he can shoot the retort I sense is on the tip of his shrewish tongue, I hold my hand out, smiling. “Hello. I’m Jolene Whitley. I moved back to town last night, and I’m hungry as a bear.”

A soft gasp echoes through the room, and I frown.

What the hell did I say?

Her gaze sharpens again as she looks me over, and finally, her expression turns to a bright smile. “Jolene Whitley!” the server booms. “You are a sight for sore eyes! We didn’t expect to see you return, especially with the stories your parents told us about your adventures in Europe. I expect you’ll have to re-learn what life in the Hollow is like.”

I look around, feeling the gazes of everyone in the room on me as I turn back with a broad smile. I hope it doesn’t look forced, but with everyone studying me like a giant bug, I feel trapped. “I’m sure I will, and I know everyone in town will help me with that.”

“Just come see ol’ Hazel and I’ll set you straight. In a town full of smiling crocodiles, I’m the friendly lizard of the group. Now, let me get you a menu…”

When her back is turned, I frown. Her analogy puzzles me, and I’m not sure the other people in the diner liked it, either. The hum of people chatting and eating starts again with Hazel’s departure. I walk closer to the counter, noting a curious piece of artwork near the register.

Art always intrigues me, so I lean into the sculpture of the Greco-Roman amphitheater with a backdrop depicting people dancing and a large green scaly looking icon under the stage. It’s quite old, and I don’t recognize the design, which is weird considering I did a lot of work in Athens. There’s a small brass bowl at the forefront of the scene, and I chuckle. It must be her version of a tip jar picked up on some vacation or online with no thought to its actual purpose. Hazel arrives as I’ve liberated the few coins in my bag and dropped them into the bowl. Her smile widens and Aldous tries to cover a small gasp.

Holy shit, is he that big of an asshole that he begrudges me tipping the server? What a fucking tool.

The server in question glares as the odious little git and hands me a menu. “Here you go, Miss Jolene. You take a look while I check on some tables. Aldous, you have somewhere to be right now, I assume. Mayor Cornelia isn’t paying you with our tax dollars to idle in my diner.”

His eyes practically drip venom. But Hazel just winks at me and heads for the floor to check in with the suspiciously quiet people eating.

“Well. She’s an outstanding cook and has the best coffee for miles, but that woman …” Aldous huffs as if her lady parts had vexed him by existing.

“I like her. She seems very welcoming,” I reply, not looking up from the menu. I’m hoping he’ll follow Hazel’s instructions and fuck off. I’ve grown tired of pandering to the little snipe, but I know that it’s dangerous not to keep him happy. I’d like to get my food and head home in peace. I have no intention of inviting anyone into my home until I’m ready, and I feel Aldous might simply invite himself inside if he followed me.

“As the lady pleases, my dear. I trust you’ll be happy in the care of our lovely townsfolk. Alas, our server is correct in that I must bid you adieu , for I have important town business to conduct.”

Aldous looks as if he’s going to grab my hand to kiss it, so I feign reaching for a napkin. “I certainly will, Aldous. I appreciate your time and your thoughtful escort. Please give Mayor Cornelia my best.”

His chest puffs out, and he nods, turning on his heel to sashay out the door. A breath I didn’t know I was holding whooshes from my lungs, and Hazel chuckles. She appeared out of nowhere. It takes all I have not to gasp. I hand her the menu as a cover, smiling a little. “I think I’ll have the waffles with berries and cream, a peach milkshake, and if you have it, a large vat of coffee to go.”

“Oh, I’ll find something for you, dear. Moving isn’t easy, and I’m sure Niecy will be by with more groceries later, but you need sustenance while you work.”

I frown. “But I didn’t ask her to do that! She doesn’t have to?—”

Hazel shakes her head and gives me a knowing look. “Oh, but she does, child. Accept it and move on—you’ll both have an easier time.”

My brows furrow, and I open my mouth to ask her what she means. But the server has skittered off again. She’s surprisingly light on her feet, and I find myself alone at the counter while I wait for my order. After looking around to make certain that I’m not ignoring anyone, I reach into my bag and pull out my sketchbook and a pencil. I typically pass my time this way and being home won’t change that.

I start by sketching the shape of her frame, getting the lines right as I watch her move about the restaurant. Hazel is solidly built, but there’s a fluidity to her movements that makes her look almost serpentine. She glides through the tight spaces with ease, talking to patrons as she goes. Her ample curves make her look warm and matronly, despite the youth in her features. Her eyes belie her age—I could see the knowledge of her years in them as we spoke.

In fact, it almost seemed like she was older than I initially pegged her, but based on her appearance alone, I know that can’t be true. She definitely doesn’t look lifted or tucked, as many of the wives in town will when I see them again. It’s a bit of a mystery, though I suppose good genes trump all.

“Excuse me. I hate to interrupt, but I’ve been told that you’re the new equestrian in town.”

I turn to look at the person who tapped on my shoulder and I drop my pencil, watching it clatter to the ground like a fool. I can’t seem to move, and my mouth is hanging open far enough to catch flies, as Niecy would say. “I… uh…”

The stranger grins, his smile like sunshine on a rainy day. His brilliant white teeth, full lips and sapphire eyes have me completely stymied. Bending down, he picks up the pencil and reaches up to hand it to me. The pose looks like a proposal and my face flames red as I take it. Once he stands again, he tilts his head, eyes dancing with merriment. “I’m Wolfgang Fletcher. My friends call me Wolfie.”

My mouth opens and closes again as I take in the formfitting jeans, tight white tee, and leather jacket. He’s clearly a decade younger than me, and I feel like a creeper being so instantly attracted to him. “I’m… I’m uh, Jolene. Jolene Whitley.”

His chuckle is adorable, and he winks. “I know. I was younger than you, for sure, but I grew up here. I’m the town vet.”

I blink. “Holy hell. Aren’t you young to be graduated from vet school?”

“I graduated early from undergrad. I’m… well, I’m pretty smart,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Hazel walks up with a to-go bag and a huge thermos, harrumphing under her breath. “He’s a damned genius is what he is. Don’t let him pull that humble good old boy routine on you. Wolfgang Lucien Fletcher, you be honest with Jolene.”

“Aw, Haze, I wasn’t lying. You know I don’t like to say that to people. Everyone looks at me like I’m some kind of a freak as it is.” The hot guy whines to my food carrying savior like they’re old friends, and the contrast between his behavior and Aldous’ couldn’t be more striking.

“It’s okay. Asking your IQ is more of a first date question, anyway.”

They both go quiet, and I smack myself in the face, cringing as I hit my nose. I’m fucking amazing with diplomats and despots, but I am useless with dating. I quit trying a long time ago. I simply make friends to enjoy their company and have escorts to events, but nothing more comes of it. I’ve resigned myself to becoming a cat lady soon.

“That sounds like an invitation, Jolene Whitley. Whether you meant to say that out loud, I’m going to take it. Perhaps we could have lunch at the ranch on Friday, and I’ll introduce you to the horses?”

“She’d love to,” Hazel says, giving me a look that says I don’t have an option.

I’m completely speechless again as the two of them look at me expectantly. “I, um, yes. Yes, that would be nice. I would like to meet the horses.”

Hot, young ‘Wolfie’ guy beams and holds his hand out. “Hand me your phone, and I’ll put my info in.”

I nod, obeying like a good little automaton. My eyes narrow as I look at Hazel, but she just grins like a Cheshire Cat. Meddling people... that’s one thing I didn’t miss about small-town life.

“Okay, I’m good. You better head out before your food gets cold. I’m sure you have lots to do before lunch,” Wolfie says.

Nodding again, I try to smile and not look like a full-on moron. “Yes. I do. Um, thank you, Hazel. I’ll, um, see you… later.”

I snatch the bag and the thermos and practically run out of the diner back to the Impala.

What in the hell just happened?